


Last Breath

by NeverQuiteLogistical



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU for The Long Night, Alternate outcome for S8E03, Character Death, F/M, For a while anyway, Resurrection, Sansa is not a bitch, The Starks are actually grateful
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 16:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19113004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverQuiteLogistical/pseuds/NeverQuiteLogistical
Summary: A different outcome for the Long Night (AU for episode 3 season 8)They have won the Battle for Winterfell, destroying the Night King and the white walkers. The Starks have survived the Long Night, but at what costs?Jon/Daenerys. OC for Sansa Stark if you think her behaviour in season 8 is canon.





	Last Breath

**Author's Note:**

> I started this piece a few days before episode 3 but couldn't finish it because I was busy with finals ( and discouraged by how disappointing season 8 is). It was meant as a one-shot but I break it in half and the next chapter will only come a few weeks later, after my finals are over.   
> Also, I'd like to thank other Jonerys fanfic writers with their fix-it fics and AUs to make it easier to cope. You guys are simply brilliant, fantastic, amazing, and there are no other fandoms like y'all.

He held her in his arms as wights crumbled to bones and rotten flesh around them, the Night King reduced to nothing but remains of ice and dust on the snowy ground. Longclaw laid broken next to him as a result, together with their allies who died fighting the dead, but nothing could compare to the anguish in his heart at that moment, crying for her.

He had run Longclaw through him, but it did _nothing._ Instead, the Night King easily broke the Valyrian Steel blade with his bare hands and threw him aside, knocking the wind out of him and leaving him disoriented on the blood-soaked snow. The monster approached, ready to deal the fatal blow.

Then he saw her. His heart lurched to his throat.  

She confronted the Night King without hesitation, as she picked up the crossbow from a fallen comrade and fired with shaky fingers. The bolt buried itself into the Night King’s back, but he seemed more annoyed than hurt. Approaching her, the Night King merely knocked the flimsy weapon out of her hands, and shoved his ice spear into her.

Everything happened so quickly and he was helpless to stop it. He wanted to scream, shout, shriek to the wind, but the horror left him shocked and frozen.

Her eyes widened, her mouth opened in a silent scream as she stared the Night King in the eyes, cold and unyielding. In her violet eyes he saw determination, her lips curling into a sneer. Jon Snow inhaled sharply, struggling to get on his feet, but it was like the blizzard had nailed his feet into the ground, and with every effort he made to stand an invisible force seemed to hold him down.

Out of nowhere Drogon came, screeching, crying, howling, before releasing a jet of red-hot flames against Daenerys and the Night King. Jon shielded his face with an injured arm, the blast of warmth overwhelming him.

When the flames stopped her were clothes burnt away, leaving tattered patches of white fur on her skin, otherwise she was unfazed by the dragon fire. Her small hands clutched the spear weakly that went through her heart. The Night King was still intact, smirking at the dragon.

Jon Snow glanced at his broken blade, glowing red as if tempered by dragon fire. The Night King was distracted, and so Jon stood on shaking, half-frozen legs as he hastily gripped the half-melted hilt of his sword, feeling the heat sear through his leather gloves.

Jon howled, locking gazes with Daenerys as he shoved the broken sword towards his back. The blade sliced through his armour like a hot knife through butter, then buried itself deep in the Night King’s ice cold flesh. He looked back, this time his face bearing surprise and disbelief, and he never could react as the warmth quickly spread from the wound to his chest, his appendages, and finally his blue eyes.

He opened his mouth but he never had a chance to utter a word. For a fleeting moment Jon thought he saw human blue eyes, instead of the Other’s ice blue ones, before bursting into millions of broken shards, together with his ice spear.

The Great Other was no more.

Daenerys crumbled to the ground. Jon threw his broken sword aside and caught her before she could fall face-first into the snow. Her white fur coat was already drenched with blood, her mouth stained crimson.

This couldn’t be happening. He refused to believe it. Tears welled in his eyes as he pulled off a glove with his teeth, ignoring the charred skin on his palm, then held her face tenderly, imploring her to look at him. “Daenerys. _Dany_ ,” he called, desperately.

She looked at him, her violet eyes that were always blazing with tenacity and strength. But now it only looked dim, tired, in pain. And it reminded of that time when he held Ygritte in his arms as she passed.

This couldn’t be happening again.

Somewhere in the silence, Rhaegal howled, crying for his mother.

“Dany, please – ”

“Jon,” her voice was naught but a whisper, every breath she took a painful gasp. She coughed once, and blood poured from her mouth just as tears flowed freely from his eyes. “You have a duty to our house,”

He looked at her, confused, then remembered what he revealed to her before the fight, how tense she became. He regretted it, he shouldn’t have told her then. He knew it had caused a rift between them, and now it was about to become permanent.

“You have to restore House Targaryen – ”

“No. Not without you,”

She smiled sadly. Weakly, she held up a hand to him, which he grasped and held firmly.

“I wish we had more time…”

Then her eyes lost their spark as her life ebbed away, her hand limp in his and her last breath felt upon his cold cheek.

He screamed into the silence as her blood soaked into the snow.

* * *

 

They placed her on the table in the only chamber that was unaffected by the carnage. The Great Hall of Winterfell was completely demolished by dragon fire as the dead swarmed into the castle earlier on. Moans and cries of surviving but injured soldiers could be heard, and the night was only warm because of the burning pyres of dead allies.

Sansa and Jon stood in the room, in silence, watching the queen who laid pale and cold on the table. They removed her white fur coat and replaced it with a shift, before covering her body with a wolf fur cloak, after cleaning the blood and grime from her body. Sansa remembered hearing her brother’s breath hitched when they saw the gaping hole at her chest.

She dared not break the grim silence in the chamber, nor did she dare to look at him. She could not bear to see the grief-stricken look on his face. So now she stared at the queen as she reminisced her conversation with her earlier that day.

Not even death could take away her ethereal beauty, and it was no wonder Jon had fallen head over heels for her.

“We can’t build her a pyre,” Jon said suddenly, and it startled her. But she caught on the slight crack in his voice, and her heart sank with sorrow for him. “The Targaryens always have their dead cremated, but I’m not sure…”

“I understand,” she quickly interrupted, knowing it would be painful for him to say it out loud. “We can ask the maester on what to do with her body. We will have a proper funeral for her,”

She turned to her brother, wanting to approach him and give him a hug, only to be taken aback by the tear tracks on his face. All her life she had never seen Jon Snow cry, not even under her mother’s cruel treatment or her cold demeanour towards him when they were children. At that moment Jon Snow’s eyes were red-rimmed, and he simply let the tears flow, not giving a damn if his half-sister was watching.

“Jon, I’m so sorry,”

“We argued, before the battle,” he admitted. She did not know why he was telling her, but still she listened. If speaking out could lessen the pain in some way, if that was even possible, she let him.

He continued, eyes fixed on the queen. “I told her something she wouldn’t want to hear. It was a terrible timing, I should have waited until the battle was over, or at least made things right after I told her. It was… it was my fault,”

Sansa frowned in confusion. What issue could they be facing that could drive them apart? She remembered seeing them inseparable a day before, obviously besotted with each other. When Jaime arrived and stood for his trial she noticed there was tension between them, but she dismissed it as stress before the coming war. Or was something going on which she was not aware of?

“Jon, what did you tell her?”

Jon looked at her this time, and the haunted look on his face was harrowing.

“Bran and Sam told me about my mother,” he said, his voice small. “And my father,”

Her brows furrowed even more. “What do you mean –”

“My parents were Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen,” he simply said, the calmness in his voice unlike the shocking revelation he just told her. “Your father lied that I was his son because Robert would have me killed if he knew. Lord Eddard suffered dishonour to protect me, to protect the truth,”

She didn’t realize she was holding her breath as he said it. She couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it.

 “All the while I was safe and protected in Winterfell, even if I was recognized as a bastard,” he choked on his tears this time. “She was running from Robert’s assassins in another continent. Abused. Raped. Defiled,”

 _If this is true, this meant he has a claim to the throne, especially after Daenerys is gone…_ Sansa thought, but she could not say it out loud. It was not the right moment to mention it.

“Before she died, she told me I have a duty to our House, that I have to restore House Targaryen,” he shook his head. “How can I love another, after her? I never asked for this, Sansa, I’d rather be a bastard. I should have saved her, died for her. None of this should have happened,”

Tears flowed freely from his eyes, dripping from his cheeks and jaw. It broke her to see him like this, but there were no words to comfort him. So she just stepped forward and enveloped him in a hug, and let his tears soak into her collar.

* * *

 

“It has to be done,” Beric Dondarrion finally said, breaking the eerie silence within the cold, dark room. Arya Stark stood next to him with Sandor and Gendry, whom she had pounced onto him the moment she found out he was alive. They were both adorned with cuts and gashes, but still alive.

The Hound looked at the man like he had gone mad. “Done? Do what? What’s dead is already dead,”

Beric laughed. “You’ve seen me brought back to life before, Sandor. With the aid of the Lord of Light, nothing remains dead indefinitely,”

Arya’s eyes were fixed on the Targaryen woman, the one who had brought wonders back into the world again, the one they said had freed slaves and conquered cities of old, now laid lifeless and small on the table. She had heard from Jon about the confrontation with the Night King, and the look on her brother’s face broke her.

Now she laid there, the large wolf cloak dwarfing her, her face white as her hair. Jon’s direwolf, Ghost curled under the table and slept, and it only proved she was right about the relationship between Jon and the Dragon Queen.

This woman came North even though she had no reason to help them, sacrificed almost all her armies and now her life as well. The Northerners were celebrating the survival of the living against the Army of the Dead, but there were no feasts or cries of triumph. She had died for them, and they now had no way to show their gratitude.

“And how are you going to do it?” Arya narrowed her eyes at Lord Beric. “Your red priest is dead. The red woman is dead. By the time we bring a servant of R’hllor here, it would have been too late,”

“Aye, that’s true,” Beric Dondarrion nodded. “But the Lord of Light brought me back for a reason. I’ve seen it in the flames, as Thoros showed me. I didn’t understand it back then, but now I do,”

The Hound cringed at him. “Understand what?”

Beric Dondarrion did not answer. Instead he loosened his sword belt and let it tumble to the ground with his weapon. He strode forward towards the Dragon Queen, waking Ghost in the process, as the direwolf looked up at him with wide red eyes. His ears were flopped down, one of it torn from the battle, and Arya’s heart clenched at the sight.

Then the leader of the Brotherhood Without Banners leaned down and pressed his lips to the dead queen’s lips, his hand gently laid on her cheek to keep her steady. They all froze at the sight, and did not move an inch until Lord Beric swayed and fell to the ground.

His one other eye looked up at them, but it was dull and lifeless, his lips slightly apart as his final breath left him.

They all waited. Waited for a miracle to happen. Waited for one of them to draw a breath. Even Ghost dare not break the sacrilegious moment that just happened.

But nothing happened.

“Well. That old cunt died for nothing,” Sandor muttered, clearly disappointed. He and Gendry carried Beric Dondarrion’s body out of the chamber, while Arya remained shell-shocked, staring at Daenerys.

It disappointed her, that nothing Beric done had changed a thing.

Breathing a sigh, she followed Sandor and Gendry out of the room, closing the door behind her.

* * *

 

The third person to enter the chamber was Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the Queen.

He had come with a flagon of wine in hand, not even bothering to get a cup. The devastating news had hit him hard, but he refused to let it show as Davos told him. And so he coped with the only way he knew – drinking.

He almost had a fright looking at Jon’s direwolf, but the creature merely stared at him with disinterest. Tyrion sat down far away from Ghost, but close enough to hold his queen’s hand.

He took a long drawl, revelling in the silence as he looked at her face. Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the girl who had not only survived her abusers and rapists, but also saved millions of other lives as she went. Her people did not follow her because she was some daughter of a long-forgotten monarch. They did so because they chose her. Whether out of devotion or a display of immense strength, Daenerys Targaryen had always been a wonder to behold.

But what made him fall for her, was her compassion for her people. Her compassion and mercy when she thought people were not looking at her. The way she treated Missandei. And how she had held him in regard as she placed the Hand of the Queen pin upon his tiny chest.

Tyrion felt tears burning his eyes. With shaking fingers, he wiped them away and took a swig from the flagon. He held her hand with his rough one and cried, part of him blaming Jon Snow for her demise. He knew they both loved each other during that moment on the ship, and he would always respect her wishes. After all, she couldn’t love him. But after the battle with the Army of the Dead, he couldn’t bear to see Jon Snow.

Maybe if he insisted he should fight with them, there could have been a different outcome.

He felt a twitch against his hands, but Tyrion dismissed it. He was shaking all over with grief and remorse, blaming himself and everyone else for the turn of events.

Then he heard a choked gasp, and he stopped sniffling. Looking up at her with crazed eyes, he froze at the sight of her, violet eyes wide open and her coughing to try and catch her breath.

She withdrew her hand from his grip and it went to her throat, her other hand ripping the fur cloak from her body to feel the accursed scar underneath her shift. Tyrion could see it, the hideous wound on her chest that puckered at the edges, the one they sewn shut as they prepared her body for the funeral rite.

He was shocked. He knew he should be relieved, but he only felt terror.

Daenerys curled into a foetal position, her head between her knees and her whole body shaking uncontrollably. He rushed forward when she nearly fell from the table she laid on, unaware that Ghost had suddenly rose on his hind legs until his head was laid on the table. Tyrion was not aware that direwolf could look confused, but there was no better way to describe Ghost’s behaviour

“Your Grace, where does it hurt? Your Grace!” Tyrion held her by her arms, but she still shook, crying in pain. He was distraught, not knowing what to do, but seeing the panic and fear on her face, her eyes begging him to help her, his mind cleared and he turned to Ghost.

“Get Jon, please,” the direwolf looked at him as he said it, then bolted towards the door, squeezing himself out of the room through the small opening.

When Jon returned with Sansa, Arya and Ghost who led them to the room, Daenerys had fallen to the ground despite Tyrion’s best efforts to keep her still. His hands still gripped her shoulders tight, trying to keep her from convulsing too much but it was futile.

Jon’s eyes were wide in shock and disbelief, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. He heard Arya mumble something that sounded like _it worked_ but he couldn’t be sure. It was Sansa who sprung to action, understanding the gravity of the situation and quickly taking charge.

“Arya, go get the maester!” she barked, and Arya dashed out of the room without another word. Sansa rushed forward and helped him lift the queen, but Tyrion hadn’t the strength to do so. “Jon! Help us!” Sansa shouted across the room, and that finally brought Jon out of his trance.

Jon rushed to them, his grip firm on Daenerys’ shoulders with her head resting upon the inside of his elbow. Sansa snaked her hands underneath the queen’s body, and with two huffs they both lifted her and placed her on the table again. Tyrion could only hold the wolf fur cloak with trembling hands, still unable to believe what he saw.

Daenerys’ eyes had closed at this point, but her body was as taut as a bowstring. She had stopped crying in pain, but she still trembled violently, a choked cry trapped in her throat.

At least it meant she was alive.

“What in seven hells just happened?” Tyrion exclaimed. Sansa looked at Jon for answers, her face just as distraught and confused as Tyrion’s. Jon, however, only looked down at Daenerys and breathed heavily.

“Arya knows,” Jon said. “But I can guess what happened,”

Sansa opened her mouth to ask something, but the door was pushed with such a force that it slammed against the wall. The three of them looked at Arya and the old maester, who came with his kit to aid the queen. The maester approached Daenerys without another word from the lord and ladies he served, quickly placing two fingers against the queen’s wrist.

“She’s alive. Her pulse is rapid, but weak. And she’s far too cold. If my lords and ladies can carry her to a proper chamber I would appreciate it. I need to examine her wound again,”

The Stark sisters immediately helped Jon carry her, and they quickly took her to the guest chamber which was near Ned Stark and Catelyn’s bedchamber, right above the ruined Great Hall of Winterfell.

Tyrion only trailed behind them with Ghost, which trotted after them with enthusiasm. His tail had been wagging non-stop since Daenerys _woke,_ though Tyrion wished he could share his glee his mind was still befuddled with amazement and fear.

What if she woke, only to pass again?

He adjusted the heavy fur cloak upon his shoulder, trying his best to keep up with the Starks who just climbed the creaking flight of stairs two steps at a time.

* * *

 

The four of them sat down on the floor of the corridor outside the maester’s chamber, Sansa and Arya holding his hands to give him strength. It was not difficult to understand what just happened. After all, it had happened to him before, and he remembered the fear and the pain of the wound overwhelming his senses the moment he woke again.

Arya had told him what Lord Beric did. The _kiss of life,_ she called it. If their situation was not so dire, he would have quipped about her sense of poetry.

It felt like an eternity before the maester exited the room, and they all held their breaths in anticipation. Jon Snow never had any regards for any of the gods, whether it be the Seven or the Old Gods. But for her he prayed, prayed that any divine forces would let her live once again.

“Her Grace’s wounds were sealed shut, but there may be risks of infection,” he remarked. “But what’s astonishing is… her organs were completely healed. No signs of perforation or internal bleeding anymore. The scar on her chest was the only proof she was fatally wounded,”

Jon Snow breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, maester,”

“But her Grace is too cold. If her temperature drops any further it could leave her vulnerable to illness. I’ll have spiced herbal tea brought to her, to warm her and hasten the healing. I suggest having the fire stoked in the fireplace at all times, and keep the windows shut,” the maester then shut his lips, contemplating the Starks’ faces for some time. He did not mean to ask it, but curiosity got the better of him. “If you don’t mind me asking, how is that possible? She came to us already dead. If the stab did not kill her, the blood loss would,”

Jon Snow could not answer without remembering his own bitter experiences. Sansa did not have a proper answer for that and neither did Tyrion, who was tongue-tied despite being one of the smartest men alive.

“After surviving the Army of the Dead and seeing the Others for yourself, do you think anything in this world is impossible?” Arya Stark answered, then flashing the maester a genuine smile. The old maester nodded, satisfied with her answer, then left them with the door ajar.

Soon they all left, except him and Ghost. Arya mentioned something about helping with the funeral pyres for those who died from the battle. Sansa said she had to inform their bannermen and those loyal to the queen regarding her condition, that there would be a lot of explaining to do. He felt Sansa’s hand squeezing his shoulder before she went, but he did not feel it or their absence. Tyrion said nothing, but stood in his way and handed over the fur cloak, then mumbled something about getting drunk and left him be.

Jon pushed aside the door, and his breath hitched. She laid in the middle of the enormous bed, covered in so much furs that only her head was visible. Her silver hair was still braided, her eyes had dark shadows underneath them. Her lips were still pale, but a bit of rosiness had returned to her cheeks, and he was grateful for that.

He sat at the side of the bed, taking her hand in his. He revelled at the light beat of her pulse beneath his fingertips, as he could not see the rise and fall of her chest with the thick furs shielding her from the cold.

_You have to restore House Targaryen._

What does that even mean? That he had to cast her aside? She had always reminded him that she was barren and the only children she would ever have were her children. But where would he find the strength to push her away, after the gods had just returned her to him when he thought he had lost her forever?

His thumb rubbed the smooth cool skin of her hand. Bringing it to his lips, he kissed her knuckles and whispered a silent prayer, wishing she could wake sooner.

When she wakes again, he would swear himself to her. He would never leave her side again, regardless of his true parentage, or who she was to him.


End file.
